


lies for a troubled heart

by selinawrites



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, Long-Distance Relationship, Love Confessions, M/M, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Video & Computer Games, YouTube
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 11,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26536009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selinawrites/pseuds/selinawrites
Summary: “Do you think you can fall in love with someone you’ve never met?”(or, the one where two idiots have been in love with each other for seven-odd months without either of them realizing it.)
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 154
Kudos: 1051





	1. voice

**Author's Note:**

> hiiii i've been binging copious amounts of dream team content and i love george and dream's dynamic :)) also these are real people with real feelings so please respect their boundaries and their privacy! hope you enjoy x
> 
> title from flatsound's i exist i exist i exist

It starts with the laughter.

It’s lyrical in a different sense, not the kind of music that could be transcribed into music notes. If it was a song, it would be the most horrendous, out of pitch monstrosity that has ever been bestowed upon human ears, but Dream still found it endearing.

George was laughing at something stupid, his own joke, probably. It was late at night and both of them were weary from a long day of recording. George was in his darkened room, the light from his monitor glowing around him. His eyes were glassy and his face donned an easygoing smile. Dream’s camera, as it was for the last months, was shut off.

He didn’t know why he never turned his camera on. Maybe it was because in the first weeks of knowing George, he never turned his camera on. Now they’ve known each other for too long and it would just be weird and awkward and horrible if he just decided right now to turn off his camera. If it bothers George that he’s never seen Dream’s face, George hasn’t ever said a word of it.

Now, George is laughing and laughing and laughing, and his voice is so smooth, operating with such a candid tenor, a tenderness and ease wrapping around Dream like a kiss goodnight. 

Dream never liked his voice all that much - that’s why he tried to spend as little time as possible editing his videos. He didn’t mind his voice at first, but three hours into cutting down hours of footage into a twenty minute video later… he began to believe that his voice was more grating than the sound of nails on a chalkboard.

But George’s voice was right there, alongside the ever agonizing pitch of his own. Where Dream’s voice was pitchy and obnoxious, George’s voice was melodic. While Dream thought he sounded like a twelve year old boy who never _quite_ got past puberty, George’s voice was smooth, it sounded crisp and clean, like the sound of ice skates gliding across a perfectly unblemished rink.

And he blurted it out - because he’s stupid, because he doesn’t think.

“Do you think you can fall in love with someone you’ve never met?” Dream asks, and he doesn’t know why he asks it. 

He isn’t in _love_ with George. He knows it, because he’s never been in love with anyone. And there are so many stories and poems and paintings about love that he’s pretty sure what is love and what isn’t. _This_ isn’t love. He’s not in love with George - he’s in love with the moment. He’s in love with pretending like they exist in a vacuum. Like life has no consequences and he can hide in his room speaking to a screen for all of eternity.

George furrows his brow and stares at Dream. Dream blinks self-consciously, and for a moment he worries his camera is on, because George looks at him so earnestly and with so much truth it feels like he’s looking into his soul. 

And then the split-second of emotion cracks and fades and George lets out a self-righteous note of laughter. “What, like fall in love with Harry Styles or something?” He says, and his eyes are so bright and full of mirth and he’s smiling with the tip of his tongue poking slightly out.

“I mean - Harry Styles _is_ really good looking…” Dream trails off, and he hears the afterthought of a chuckle from George. “But no.” He finishes. “I mean like, someone you know, but you’ve just never met in real life.”

A breath from George, and three - maybe four - rapid blinks in a consecutive manner. He stays quiet for a moment, considering it quietly. There’s a split-second of thoughtfulness, and then the same easygoing smile slithers it’s way back onto George’s face. 

He smiles. “Fallen in love with an egirl, have you?” George joked.

The joke comes with such warmth and such hasty candidness that it takes Dream off guard. “What? No… I-” He stammers. 

“I’m kidding.” George waves away, that same expression of thoughtfulness making it’s way back onto his face. “Of course you can fall in love with someone you’ve never met before. Just because it’s on a screen doesn’t make it any less real.”  
  


Dream nods and they stay silent for a moment.

After a heartbeat, George breaks the silence. “Dream, acting like a simp? Damn, she must be really special....”

Dream laughs and his finger hovers over the _end call_ button. He threatens to hang up, but his words hold no weight as the wheezing rise and fall of his laughter carries across an ocean.


	2. home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> covid sucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all the love on the last chapter! i really wanted to write this fic outside of all the corona-ness of the world, but it seems impossible to accomplish as long as the dream and george i'm writing exist at the same time as us.

They never talk about the real world - their homes, their lives away from the keyboard.

Maybe because the real world is bleak and awful and Dream would prefer it if they just existed some place far away from it.

They never talk about how Dream lives across the ocean, in America, where things are so  _ undeniably  _ fucked up. There’s nothing neither Dream nor George could do about it, so why bother?

But then it’s raining one night in England, and Dream can hear the pitter-patter of rain hammering on George’s windowsill in the background of his microphone. They’re playing Minecraft together because it’s the only thing they ever do. (Dream almost wishes that him and George would set up a _ Netflix Party  _ and watch a horror movie together, because George’s reactions at a creeper or skeleton jump scaring him in Minecraft make him laugh so much he sounds like a tea kettle. He wonders how George would react to  _ The Shining  _ or  _ The Blair Witch Project.)  _

At this point, it’s almost expected that Dream and George spend their evenings together. It’s the sweet spot in between their time zones when both of them were awake and not zombies from sleep deprivation.

It’s seven in the evening over on Dream’s side of the world, a little after midnight back in Britain. George’s webcam is on, and he’s drinking from a glass of water. From outside his webcam’s purview, the sound of rain patters on.

“Has it been raining a while?” Dream asks inconspicuously. 

George nods, swallowing down a last gulp of water. “All day pretty much. Good day to stay in and play video games.”

Dream nods in assent, even though he knows that George can’t see him. (He wonders if it bothers George all that much, that their video calls are one-sided) 

“I’d like to go to the UK one day.” Dream mused. George smiled.

“You should come. We could meet up in real life.” George replied. “I’ve been to Florida before, when I was a kid.”

Dream hitched an eyebrow up and leaned back in his chair. “Oh yeah?”

George nodded. “Went to Disney World. Bit of a cliche British family vacation, but I had fun.”

“You should come back here sometime. It’d be cool to show you around.”

George considered this and then smiled, scrunching his nose up and the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Too hot. Wouldn’t be able to spend more than five minutes standing in the sun without shrivelling up and dying.” He joked.

“Imagine what it’s like to run across a field in that heat.” Dream chided.

George let out a laugh and smiled softly. “You played sports, right?”

Dream nodded, and then stopped himself halfway when he realized that George couldn’t see his response. “Yeah,” He replied. “Football in high school and a little bit of basketball and soccer.”

“ _ Soccer.”  _ George said, narrowing his eyebrows. “Soccer.”

  
“What?” Dream replied, when it hit him. “Oh, sorry your highness! I meant football!” He said mockingly, donning a British accent as he heard laughter from the other side of the screen.

“What about you? Did you play any sports?”   
  


George shook his head. “Little bit of  _ soccer,”  _ George said, glowering distastefully as he said soccer instead of football, “but only because they made us play during class. Not because I liked it or anything.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then George lets out a yawn. Dream rolls his eyes, only because he knows George can’t see him.

“George.” He said firmly. “Go to bed.”

George yawned again and insistently shook his head. “I don’t wanna go to bed. Because it’ll mean I’d have to stop talking to you.”

Dream let out a sputtering laugh and sighed. “You’re ridiculous. Just put your phone on your side table and you can talk to me then.”

“Oh.” George said flatly. “Yeah.”

Dream chuckled as he watched George shut down his computer and turn off his monitors. 

“Wouldn’t it be cool if you could come see me?” George said casually, as he coiled together wires into neat rounds. 

Dream let out a breath of air. “If I didn’t live across the world, yeah.”

“Maybe when  _ all this _ is over,” George said, waving his hands in the air. Dream knew what he meant. When they’d be allowed to travel again. When the world would go back to normal. “You can come visit.”

Dream nodded. Going to visit George meant showing his face, it meant staring George in the eye and knowing that George was looking back at him. It meant venturing out into the unknown.

_ “Maybe.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! as always, please comment & kudos if you enjoyed :)


	3. night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg thank you again for everyone supporting this work! all of your comments inspire me endlessly and i'm so glad that so many of you enjoy what i'm writing :)

George’s voice was raspy and an octave lower, slightly worn out at the edges and sounding a little lopsided from laying down in bed. 

“Do you need me to read you a bedtime story?” Dream joked, a tiny scoff rising up in him.

George flashed Dream a wan smile as he steadied his phone with a pillow. In the dim light, Dream could see the endings and beginnings of George’s side profile.

“Tell me a story about you.”

Dream scoffed and he shook his head. He leaned back in his chair and held his head in his hands. “A story about me?” He asked in disbelief. “I’m not very interesting, George.”

George rolled on his side so his face was facing the camera. He hitched up his eyebrow and stared at Dream. “Seriously?” He said flatly. “You expect me to believe that one day you just  _ came into being  _ as a fully formed person? No stories? Nothing?”

Dream closed his eyes and let a small smile spread across his face. There was a flickering feeling somewhere deep inside of him, and it made him feel warm and curious. “Yeah,” He responded. “Popped out of the ground the world record Minecraft holder.”

George’s screen was dark and obscured, but Dream could just  _ feel  _ George’s eye-roll. “Tell me that story, then.”

“What?”

“Tell me the story of why you play Minecraft.”

Dream looked around the room and the air felt tight. He let out a weak laugh. “I dunno…” He said. “Everyone was playing it and it was something fun to do.”

George let out a groan. “You really are the most boring person in the world!” He exclaimed. “Jeez, are you trying to bore me to sleep?”   


Dream smiled and shook his head warily. “That’s the plan.”

They held their silence for a while, so long that the line on the other end filled with white noise. “Are you asleep yet?” Dream whispered, watching the dark shadowy figure on George’s screen.

He heard the rumpling of the sheets before George’s voice. “Nope.” George replied smugly. “Still waiting for that story.”

Dream sighed and folded his arms over his chest. “Fine, what do you want to hear?” He asked, and he knew it was a loaded question. He was basically giving George the ability to ask him whatever he wanted.

George stayed quiet for a while, considering this carefully. “I dunno. Maybe tell me why you’re so much worse at coding than I am?”

Dream rolled his eyes at George’s obvious joke. “I do coding the same reason I did anything else. It made sense to me.”

“As opposed to?” George asked, stifling a yawn mid-sentence.

“Like, The Catcher in the Rye or the Great Gatsby. Math just makes sense to me.”

George sighs. “You know what, Dream?”

“What?”

“I think you’re lying.”

Dream let out a hesitant laugh. “What?”

“I think you’re actually the most interesting person in the whole entire world, but you’re just trying to get me so bored that I fall asleep and forget that you’re the worst storyteller to ever exist.”

Dream chuckled. “Sure, George. Let’s go with that.”

George yawned again. “Well, it’s working.” He said, stretching over to the other side of his bed and picking up his phone. The light from the screen dimly illuminated George’s features. “I’m finally tired. I think I’m gonna go to bed.”

Dream nodded and looked over at his screen. His finger hovered over the  _ end call  _ button, but he wasn't ready to hang up. Not yet. “Goodnight, George.”

“Goodnight, worst storyteller to ever exist.” George said, and then promptly hung up on Dream.

Dream let out a sigh.

Maybe George was onto something - that he wasn’t as boring as he thought himself to be. But he wasn’t actively trying to bore George to sleep, he just didn’t know how to talk about himself. Nobody ever cared about what he had to say.

And there George was, hanging on to every syllable he had to say, but his tongue went dry and he suddenly couldn’t think of all the things he had done in his twenty one years of life.

Dream just doesn’t want to let George in too close, because he’s afraid that George will stop seeing him how everyone else sees him - as this amazing, crazy talented, funny, Minecraft player.

He’s got this fear - that if he tells George something more, he'll start seeing Dream for who he really is: not a myth, just a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! pls leave a kudos/comment if you liked this chapter :)


	4. mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhh disclaimer unlike dream and george i am not very good at math and coding and idk how those things work. for some of the terms i used in this chapter i literally googled "coding terms" lol so sorry if any of the terms were used improperly!! i tried doing the best research i could but i was studying for my math test earlier and my brain almost started leaking out of my ear.

George was always the brilliant one.

Sure, Dream was better at Minecraft than him, but he was better at Minecraft compared to pretty much everyone else. And sometimes George didn’t know how to do things or he didn’t know which colours were what, but these weren’t errors in his capabilities, it was just him being human.

No, George was the brilliant one out of the two of them. Dream knew how to code things and take apart computers and could rattle on about all the different ways that you could beat a seemingly-simple block game, but he practised these things until the knowledge was as familiar as addition and subtraction. Math and Minecraft made sense to him, but these things came naturally to George.

George didn’t need to think before he did something. He never tested his lines of code because he just  _ knew  _ it’ll work. He never doubted himself for a second, knew how to set up lights and cameras and code a plugin not because he learnt how to, but because it had always been in him. Sure, he had taken classes and read articles, but these things came naturally to George, like the same way it just made sense to Dream.

Dream felt like a fish out of water, as he watched lines of code fly off of George’s fingers. He was talking rapidly about conditional statements and variable types, and it made Dream smile. This was George, so wholly in his element.

“Right, so then we just make this statement true and finalize it into the algorithm. Once we put it into this cell everything should run smoothly.” George said, speaking with such rapid speed.

Dream typed out a simple command underneath George’s work and gave everything a once-over. Dream’s plugins were always hasty, cut-and-paste works molded together from a hodgepodge of collected knowledge from YouTube tutorials and scouring how-to sites. 

George’s plugins, on the other hand, were elegant. They were easy to follow, they were logical. They looked sophisticated and always looked as if it would run flawlessly.

“Let’s try it out!” George exclaimed on the other end of the call.

Dream wordlessly launched Minecraft and started a new world. Not long after, he saw George’s pixelated character join the game as well. “Alright,” Dream said, clearing his throat. “Run the command.”

Dream could hear George typing into his keyboard, and as soon as the command ran, Dream looked around at the simulated world and the blocks started rising above him.

“It works!” Dream exclaimed, as George chuckled happily.

They played in the world for a little bit as they made sure that everything ran smoothly, and then they left the game and sat in silence for just a moment.

“Hey I’ve got a question.”

“Shoot.” George said, as Dream watched George’s screen close a bunch of tabs and turn on his camera. Dream stared at George’s face.

“You’re so good at coding.”

George furrowed his eyebrow. “That’s not a question, Dream.”

Dream let out a stammering laugh. “My question is,” he began. “How’d you get so good?”

“Well, I studied computer science in uni.” George said matter-of-factly. They shared a beat of laughter. 

Dream shook his head. “Yeah but… it’s not like I’m  _ uneducated  _ compared to you. I’ve taken lots of computer science classes after leaving high school. And I got certified in a bunch of things.”

“I know,” George waved off. “You can code better than the average person, Dream.”

“I understand it the same as you, but it just seems to come to you so much more naturally.”

George starts and stops his sentence. “I don’t know.” He settles on. “Trying to get a plugin to work or something is just one big puzzle to me.” He said with a shrug. George looked uncomfortable. They never were comfortable talking about themselves. 

Dream realized how it felt to be on the other end of this conversation - wanting to know something about someone so desperately, but something impossible blocking their way. He wanted to know what went on in George’s brain, something that was more than just skin-deep. Sure, he enjoyed the times when they talked about Harry Potter or something stupid that the other saw on TikTok, but sometimes, he wanted to know about George’s life, about what he believed in, what he was motivated by and what he was passionate about. Dream just wanted to know more about George. 

Dream didn't know why or how, but he supposed that maybe George would like to know more about him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! please leave a comment if you enjoyed :) my response time might be a lil delayed but i always try to respond to every single one of them!


	5. face I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late post!! i had some other things that took priority over this fic but i'm glad to be writing this fic and this chapter in particular ;)

They must get asked the question every single time they stream.

_ Has George ever seen your face? _

And they always say the same answers.

_ No, because Dream is camera shy. / No, because Dream is actually secretly very ugly. / No. Dream is actually a very rich and famous son of a billionaire and doesn’t want anyone finding out. _

George  _ has  _ seen Dream’s face, in old photos Sapnap sends him or ones from very long ago. No videos, and certainly no video calls. Nothing substantive enough to consider it,  _ actually seeing Dream’s face.  _

They must get asked the question every single time they stream, so it’s no surprise when another donor asks it, along with a generous $50.

The donor asks it towards the end of the stream, when things were wrapping up and they were getting ready to say goodbye.

“Has George ever seen your face?” Dream mumbled into his microphone, reading the quick-to-disappear message. “No he hasn’t. Maybe someday.” He said casually.

“Maybe like right now?” George replied mischievously, and Dream could just  _ feel  _ the way George’s eyebrow is probably quirked up, a gentle smile sporting his face.

His eyes flicked over to his other monitor, where he could see the chat running a mile a minute. Through the chaos, he could discern messages such as: yes please face reveal!!!!!/omg dream face reveal/ahhh can’t believe i’m here for dream’s face reveal live on camera

Dream let out a chuckle and shook his head. He was feeling a little impulsive, half in love with the idea of letting George in just a little.

“Fine,” He conceded, taking his phone out from his pocket and scrolling through his camera roll. He settled on a photo of him from a few months ago, back when they could go outside, back when he didn’t have to stay six feet away from others. Back when life made sense, but also when nothing ever did.

One of his friends took the photo. They were in a park, and his elbow was pressed up against the railing that separated land from lake. He was looking off into the distance, laughing at something candidly. (He thinks it was a goose honking at a squirrel.) He was wearing a yellow sweater rolled up to expose his forearms - because Florida weather is a bitch. His hair was long, but still manageable, light brown in the darker areas and dirty blond in the light. It was slightly curly, and the sun in his eyes made them look like the colour of jade - not sewer water.

He liked this photo of him - as much as he didn’t quite care for his face. He looked happy. Kind. Honest. All the things that he wanted George to see in him. 

And he knows that he wants to meet George eventually. In the flesh, when all this is over. He wants to talk to George without the barriers of masks or screens, and there will be nothing to hide behind when the time comes. So he sends the photo to George, across borders, across oceans.

He clears his throat and talks into his microphone. “Check your messages. I sent you something.”

George stays silent on the other end, and he can hear the text-to-speech voice in his ears before he hears George’s voice.

“George what did Dream send you?” The donor asked.

George let out a gentle laugh, not the one that made it seem like he was laughing at Dream. It sounded like wonder, and maybe, not absolute disgust.

“He sent me a photo of himself.” George said lightly.

“What do you… think?” Dream asked hesitantly.

“Well. You’re human. You’ve got eyes and ears, I guess.”

“You guess?” Dream laughed.

“You look like how I expected you to look!” George exclaimed, and Dream supposed that George was just as embarrassed as he was.

Dream let out a tiny laugh. “With that being said, I guess we’re gonna call it a night. Thanks for watching, everyone!” He said, as him and George muttered out various salutations.

And once the stream was over and they weren’t broadcasting themselves to thousands of people, it felt way more intimate than anything that Dream could have ever imagined.

“You look good, Dream.” George says at long last, breaking the silence between them.

Dream squirmed a little, because he wasn’t used to compliments. Because he didn’t know how George seeing his face made him feel. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t know you were blond.” He adds.

Dream nods his head. “It’s so dark, it’s practically brown.”

George lets out a snort of laughter. “Not like my hair.”

“No, not like yours.” Dream laughs, as the space between them goes dead with silence once more.

Dream contemplates ending their call, when he hears George’s voice fill his ears, gentle and kind, all the things that Dream wishes he was. 

“I guess this means you can finally turn on your camera when we call, huh?”

Dream felt trapped. Because it was one thing to send a photo of yourself, another to be actively seen by the world.

“Maybe some other time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think we can all relate to dream's difficult feelings - particularly the dichotomy between wanting to be seen/fearful to show yourself to the ones we love.... and i find that so beautiful


	6. lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dream and george wear masks in public! and social distance! and don't put their loved ones in unnecessary risk! be like dream and george!

They say it a lot -  _ when things get better. _

They mean it in both a personal and international sense. They mean when things get better, when their newfound Internet fame steadies into something more reminiscent of a monthly paycheque, when they can travel again, when they don’t have to wait two weeks in isolation, when affording things such as rent and food and water are a guarantee, not a possibility.

But when George says it now, he almost means it in a different sense, one rooted deeply into reality.

“When things get better, you’re coming to the U.K.” George says, for what must be the millionth time. He says it constantly, inviting Dream over at any given moment.

Dream nods. “I will. And I’ll crash at your crappy apartment and play on your Minecraft account.” He said. George rolled his eyes.

"Flat." George corrects.

" _Flat."_ Dream mimics, in a too-posh accent.

They’re editing their videos side by side, because it’s better to do it alongside someone, lest you fall into a bottomless pit of your own voice. They did all their menial tasks together, from coding to recording, streaming to editing. Most of the stuff could be split between them to cut their production time in half, but Dream will admit it, he likes the company.

He likes the way that George’s presence feels the same way as lighting a candle - it fills the room with light and warmth, at first a blinding sensation, which mellows out into a comfort. George was welcoming. He was foolish and brilliant, exhausted and energetic. He was a mystery that Dream never had enough time to figure out.

He likes George’s company, and that itself comes in the form of pixels on a screen. He wonders what it would be like, to actually see George. To look him in the eye, to reach out and feel flesh instead of metal. To listen to voices, not sounds pumped through a headset. He misses something before even experiencing it. 

The line goes suffocatingly silent on both ends and the lack of words fills the air.“Does it ever get lonely?” George said abruptly.

“What?

“Living alone.”

Dream raised his eyebrows, though George couldn’t see it. “You live alone too, George. I could ask you the same thing.” He said matter-of-factly.

George tilts his head and shakes it slightly. “Yeah, but I asked first.”

Dream let out a wheeze of a chuckle. “Fair enough.”

“So? Does it?”

Dream’s elation shatters and makes way for his candor. He thinks of the mile-long silences, the separation from others, the way he only leaves his house to get groceries at odd hours of the evening, when he’s sure he won’t be going during high-traffic times. He thinks of the way he always has his headphones in or has his speakers blasting on the highest volume in order to drown out the silence. But nothing ever does.

He thinks of how all the friends he ever truly made were behind a screen, how even if they met in real life, their relationship will always be strictly dictated by the rules of the internet. He thinks and he thinks and he thinks. He thinks of this inescapable void eating at him. He thinks of how he’s distracted by the numbers, the views and the followers, when he’s awake and working, but he can barely breathe from the loneliness when he goes to sleep. So he listens to podcasts and audiobooks so there’s one more thing to focus on that isn’t himself. And when he wakes up with tears in his eyes or his arms wrapped around a pillow, well, that’s just a symptom of existence.

And he thinks. And thinks. And thinks of all these things, but none of them measure up to being  _ alone.  _ Or so he thinks. Because he doesn’t want George to know how deeply  _ human  _ he is, because if George knows he’s human, he’ll be just like everyone else. God forbid Dream be human like the rest of us, because then he’ll be another face in the crowd, another passer-by in this isolated world. 

If George knows his real name, knows how he looks, knows the inside of his heart better than any other man, it takes away from all the other things. It takes away from the world records, the manhunts, the videos. The legacy. He doesn’t want George to know anyone else but Dream, this character, this myth. Because the stories we tell are always better than the cold reality.

So he lies. Because his heart can’t take the truth. 

Dream shakes his head, though George can’t see it. The moment lasts forever and ever and Dream wants to do everything in his power to make it last longer. But life doesn’t work like that.

“There’s lots of work to be done. I don’t have time to think of other things.” He says, and he winces. Because it sounds cold, even for him.

Quickly, he adds. “I have you though, don’t I?”

George almost forgets to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol @ the way the tags say light angst but this chapter was anything but light


	7. noise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i return after a week bearing gifts... of a lore dump

Dream doesn’t pick up when George calls over the next few days. Sometimes it’s lonelier to be with people than to be without.

He doesn’t pick up when George calls him to do work together. He doesn’t text back to ask George how his day went. He doesn’t talk to George because in some convoluted way, talking to someone just makes him feel lonelier.

He spends the next three days drowning out the feeling. And he does approximately ten things.

**One - Dream cleaned his apartment.**

He opened the curtains and sprayed Lysol and lit that lemon yellow candle that his mother got for him at the farmers market. He vacuumed his carpets and mopped the floors and made himself believe that life was starting over again. He hung up his plaques so generously given by YouTube (but kept his high school diploma in its envelope). And he rearranged his dining table and let light into his home. Because maybe then his home wouldn’t be so lonely. And if his home wasn’t so lonely,  _ he  _ wouldn’t be so lonely.

**Two - He went to the grocery store.**

It was the only thing he could do without feeling like he had been given a death sentence. So he puts on his cleanest mask, pockets a bottle of hand sanitizer, and steps outside. He walks down to the corner store and across the block, down to the plaza Target. He gets a cart and pushes through the aisles, making fleeting eye contact with everyone he meets.

He marvels at the insanity of this world - how we all shared this one cosmically tiny planet, but contained universes inside of us. He looked at the lady debating between soy and almond milk in the dairy aisle. He knew that there was a story to tell there, so he made one up in his head. Something about a peanut allergy and a hesitancy to drink soy. His eyes glanced over to a teenage girl and her friends, standing far apart but filming a video on her phone. He thinks of how the times they lived in affected her life, how she probably wasn’t able to go to her high school dance, or see her friends, or finish school in person.

Dream is fascinated by this, at how everyone has a story to tell, each one completely different from the last. And he wonders how out of all the people in the world, his story is the most mundane to tell. At times, he isn’t even sure if he has a story to tell at all.

**Three - He burnt the pasta sauce.**

There are many things that Dream is, a coder, a brilliant observer, a video game enthusiast, someone with a (reputed) photographic memory. A good cook is not one of them. He tried watching a video from some ASMR cooking channel where they made pasta with a simple enough tomato sauce, and it looked so easy that a three year old could do it.

He was halfway through his Postmates order when he decided that if he could hold a world record, he could cook some pasta.

So he did. And he cut up the garlic and onions and tomatoes and put it into a pot with herbs and spices. And his house smelled like warmth and openness and all the things he wished it truly was. Dream starts to think that maybe this life of his isn’t that tragic after all.

And then his mind starts wandering to a new project he might have, something with Ender pearls and lava buckets and something ridiculously challenging. He’s scribbling down lines of code by hand when he smells something burning.

Fuck.

**Four - He watched the sunset.**

He takes his slightly burnt pasta sauce and put it on top of his spaghetti. He opens his balcony door and sits on the chair outdoors. The sun is going down, and he sees streaks of orange and red paint the sky into a fiery landscape. He cracks open a bottle of beer and takes a deep breath. He sinks his fork into his pasta and takes a hesitant bite. Surprisingly, it doesn’t taste too bad. Maybe he can do this, after all.

**Five - Dream played music.**

With the sun fully set and the dishes all washed, he started to feel that gaping emptiness eat at his insides again. He asks his Alexa to put on any playlist. And he does his work alone, listening to Queen and Bach and Hozier and The Smiths and Justin Bieber and Fleetwood Mac and Beethoven and deadmau5 and Arctic Monkey and The Beatles and anything. Anything. He works until he gets ti the inevitable point where he hits a rut, where he’s at his limit for the evening. So he calls it a night.

**Six - He tries (and tries) to compose a message.**

_ George, _

_ Hey I know I haven’t been- _

_ Sorry for…. _

_ It’s been a whil- _

_ I should have replied but, _

He starts it a million ways, but he can’t think of a good way to phrase it.  _ Hey George there’s something eating at me and I feel kind of empty right now but don’t worry it’ll pass. _

How do you tell someone it’s okay that you’re falling apart, even when you know it isn’t? How do you start a conversation that will ultimately end in pity and a lecture, when all you want is someone to shut up and listen?

How do you tell someone you’re so damn alone, but there’s nothing him or anyone can do about it?

Spoiler alert: you don’t.

  
  


**Seven - He stares up at the boundless ceiling.**

And so Dream can’t sleep. Because he’s thinking of all the things he wished he could say to George. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust George, hell no. He trusted George more than anyone else in the world. He’ll tell George the most outlandish, honest things about himself, but there’s a line drawn between personal and private. He can’t tell George anything too close to him, because he’s afraid George will start seeing Dream the way Dream sees himself. He wants to tell George all these things, but he can’t. Because that would mean that he would have to admit them to himself, first.

So he keeps staring at the ceiling, hoping that it will shapeshift into a wrapped gift box with the solution to all his life’s problems tied up neatly with a bow. 

**Eight - Dream sleeps in through his alarm.**

Because there’s no reason for his to wake up early, to sync his schedule with Britain’s time.

**Nine - He changes the password to his Netflix account.**

It’s random, but he forgets that his ex has access to his Netflix account. He thinks of all the shows they watched together, how they shared an account because it was just more convenient. And then the relationship fizzled out and Dream never bothered to change the password. He didn’t think there was a need. 

Dream looks in the mirror and doesn’t know who he is. He sees an amalgamation of all these lives he’s stolen. The mannerisms of his best friends, the cheesy pop culture references his siblings used to make, the information he’s absorbed from the internet, the clothes he wears because he sees it on a passing stranger. The TV drama knowledge he only absorbed because of the people he dated. The things he’s done just to impress someone or to get a certain job. All these things aren’t his. There wasn’t an original bone in his body.

**Ten - He starts to believe that he can live like this.**

When he talks to George, all that chatter falls away. There’s a moment bound to happen in all their conversations, when they fall silent. And even though Dream knows damn well that there’s a person on the other end of the call, he realizes it then, how absolutely  _ fucked  _ he is. How the only real meaningful connections he’s ever made were on the Internet. How George’s voice wasn’t actually his voice, just synthesized binary code spoken into his ears. 

He can’t stand the silence. It’s why he babbles on and on in whatever he does, in his speedruns, in his manhunts, it’s why he can never take things seriously, because if he does, he’ll begin to realize just how utterly screwed he is. Because if he can’t make connections outside of the internet, how does he exist? How can he continue to exist in life, in a way that makes sense to him? 

And if he can’t stand the silence, Dream starts to believe that he can live in this world full of noise and chatter with no real substance. He goes three days without talking to George. And he does ten things. And Dream thinks he can make it to four, or five. Because Dream already picked up on what times George calls him at.

And then George calls Dream in the middle of the night, at two in the morning, when he least expects it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay ty for reading pls kudos n comment if you did xx next update will be a lot sooner bc its gonna b one of my faves to write :)


	8. face II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> going back to my roots for this one - hope you like it<3

“Dream?”

“Huh?” Dream mumbles out, half awake, half in a lopsided nightmare.

“It’s been four days.” George says, and Dream can’t tell if he’s dreaming or not, but it sounds like he’s stating fact, completely devoid of emotion.

Dream finally opened his eyes all the way and turned on the lamp in his room. He was greeted with a sincere, yet somber face through a screen. “Sorry,” Dream replied, but it didn’t sound very sorry, and George knew that. His face softens, and the rigidity in George’s voice makes way for concern.

“Are you alright?” George asks, eyebrows furrowed and lip slightly pouting. Dream puts his head in his hand. Stupid British boy.

If he was younger and a little more immature, he would have brushed it off, he would have hung up already. But there was George, genuine, kind, and funny without ever being mean. That was the problem with George - being with him was like looking into the sun. His own personality was so bright and blinding that you almost forget that you’re burning up. Time doesn’t behave properly with George. Hours are minutes and minutes are seconds. It feels like Dream is tumbling down a rabbit hole. All these things are fine and well, if only Dream wanted to get out of it. But he didn’t mind burning up. And he never minded falling down.

There’s a reason why the story of Icarus flying into the sun still makes its way around the globe, passes on weary lips and dies on travellers tongues. It’s a cautionary tale, even for the best of us. It’s why this wild thing of a heart is trapped in a cage of its own, why hurricanes are given human names. (One simple question shouldn’t kill Dream, but damn it, it does.)

“You get too much sometimes.” Dream says. (It’s not what he wants to say.)

There’s a split-second of shock and surprise the size of a grain of sand. It melts, and George doubles down on his concern. “What do you mean?” He asks, and it _kills_ Dream.

Because they always end up like this. They always make their way back here, no matter what happens. George is always the anchor, Dream always lost at sea.

The truth is, when Dream will look back at this year, he won’t think of how his YouTube account skyrocketed, how he went from getting little to no views to millions in a minute. All he’ll think about is the crinkle in the corner of George’s eye when he smiles, how all Dream wants is to know what goes on in that mind of his. How George was always there for him - how he always _will_ be there for him.

Dream takes a deep breath and steadies himself. “That isn’t what I meant.” He backtracks. “I mean-” He starts, and he doesn’t know how to finish. How do you describe the moments between the beating of your heart? How do you put into words the silence after each breath? How do you talk about the chapters in between, the mundane, the ordinary? Here’s the answer: you don’t. So Dream swallows his pride, and he feels bad for George.

Because they always end up here, with George staring at a screen, not ever Dream’s own face. They go in circles without ever getting anywhere. And Dream hates it. How he knows he’ll never be enough. “You have a comp sci degree. You’re smart. You’re kind. You’re everything I want to be. And sometimes... it gets too much for me.”

“You’re the one with over ten million subscribers,” George said teasingly. Dream rolled his eyes. He hated when people brought that up, how just because he’s got meagre success of his own, he can’t ever compare to anyone else."Don't compare."

"But you're always there for me." Dream whines. "And I feel like I'm failing. As a friend. I don't even turn on my camera for you."

"You know I don't expect you to do that for me." George chides.

"Yeah but..." Dream starts, fumbling on his words. "Sometimes I want to. Like right now." It’s a bad idea from the get-go. But he fights against his better knowledge because he wants to show George his face, because he is as much a part of George’s personal history as George is to his own.

There’s a pause on the other end, and George blinks quickly. It’s seven in the morning in Britain (George never needed that much sleep), and the sun is peeking it’s way out of the horizon. All around them, it felt like life was starting over. “Then do it.” George said simply. "You know I won't judge you."

Dream went to turn the camera on, and he fought past his hesitation.

Once he turned his camera on, he saw George’s change in expression. His eyes always looked glazed over, regarding his screen but never really looking at it. But George blinked, and it felt like the earth would swallow Dream whole.

He wonders what George sees. Someone with bags under his eyes, a messy mop of dirty blond hair, curling in unintelligible directions. Someone who looked like he just woke up, green-grey eyes still clouded from sleep.

Perhaps George saw a boy just like him. Someone familiar, and yet unbeknownst to him. An ocean away, and a face to match the voice. 

“Hi.” George whispers, and his face is sporting a smile. His pupils are darting all across the screen, and it makes Dream laugh.

“Hey.”


	9. selfish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promised i'd update soon lol but since i last updated i've had 2 mental breakdowns, aoc and corpse (??????) played among us together, i dropped out of my math class,AND dream uploaded a manhunt!

Dream was never good at fitting in anywhere. 

When he talked, he always found his voice too grating. When he walked, he thought he looked awkward and lanky. And don’t get him started on when he  _ laughed.  _

He didn’t think he was interesting or charming or worth anyone’s time. He didn’t think this in a depressing way, just a matter of fact. It is just the truth of the matter that everyone else was more interesting than he was.

And then his YouTube channel started growing exponentially, and suddenly there was this entire audience of people clinging onto every word he spoke. It felt like he woke up one day and all his anonymity was taken away from him.

That was the main reason why he never showed his face. Because he didn’t think his face was  _ interesting  _ enough at the start, and now things have just gone on for too long that it would be weird to turn his webcam on without making a big deal of things. That was it. No big conspiracy, nothing life-changing.

But then he met other people in his community. People with radiant smiles, with moonbeam eyes. With locks of gold and chestnut and olive, skin pure yet ridged, like the topography of Earth. They were all so beautiful, and just because Dream never looked at anyone else in a romantic way doesn’t mean that he couldn’t appreciate them aesthetically.

He started to feel uncomfortable in his own skin, not because he was insecure, but because everyone around him just looked better and acted friendlier and they all seemed to have their lives together. It seemed like they could have it all - be charming and funny and show their faces in their videos without folding in on themselves or collapsing into a bag of knotted nerves.

George called Dream the next evening, and Dream knew that he had to turn on his webcam - because there would be more questions if he hid from George than if he just bit the bullet and turned it on.

He picked up the phone and paused slightly, feeling disconnected from his pixelated reflection on the screen.

“Hi.” Dream said, propping his phone up against his computer monitor. He was sitting in his chair at his desk, voice slightly worn out at the edges after a day of streaming.

“Hey.” George said sheepishly. 

There was no hiding this time, no excuses. There was just the desk lamp shining in his eyes, leaning back in his seat, and the knowing. (The knowing was the worst.) He knew that George could see him right now, all six-foot-three of him. 

“You’re… blond.” George settled on after a long time. Dream let out a soft exhale of bemusement.

“Yeah, and you’ve got brown hair.” Dream said with an eye roll. George shook his head in quiet disbelief. “No, but, you’re blond. Like really blond.”

“It’s only blond because my lamp is shining right at it.” Dream said. “It’s usually a light brown.”

George smiled. “And your eyes are green too. I thought you were just joking.”

Dream blinked and laughed exuberantly. “Joking?” He asked, “Why would I be joking?”

George shrugged and spun around in his chair. “I dunno. Green eyes? Wavy blond hair? Six-foot-three?” He said, eyes wide and disbelieving. “Kind of sounded like you were talking about, Apollo, or Achilles, or, you know, one of them.”

Dream shook his head and smiled. (He couldn’t stop smiling, and he fought it as much as he could. Because he isn’t used to being  _ seen  _ so acutely as George sees him. “You thought I was talking about a  _ Greek God _ ?” He exclaimed.

“Yup!” George said, shaking his head up and down enthusiastically, and then his voice died down. “Turns out it’s just same ‘ol Dream.” He said sheepishly.

“Told you nothing would change.” Dream chided. “I’m still the same guy who you play video games with.”

George nodded and scratched the nape of his neck. “Just got a face to associate it with.”

“Sorry about that.” Dream joked.

George narrowed his eyebrows, and then the joke dawned on him. “Dream.” He said, shaking his head. “Don’t apologize. You look… human. Like the rest of us.”

Dream could feel a kick in his heart and something warm and curious. He admired George for this, for his unrelenting goodness. He doesn't know how George does it - how he's always able to say the right thing. The selfish part of him wants to take George away from this world, keep him somewhere safe, and let him exist somewhere far from this world. He wants it to be the two of them, George being steady, and Dream going in circles.

Dream wants to hide him from the world, but it’s what Dream adores most about George - how he belongs everywhere, while Dream can barely belong anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did yall see that bedrock nether thing he did how does he DO THAT how is he baby and also big brain i love him


	10. impulse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCC CHAMPIONS 100% WINRATE!!!!!

And so life goes on.

It’s all so mundane, the same exact actions over and over again, and yet, the world around him keeps changing. The world gets more complicated. It becomes harder to exist in a world that hardly ever makes sense. Life keeps changing, but it truly is all the same. Dream writes. He reads. He codes. He feels something treacherous in his heart (but that’s just a symptom of the human condition). He thinks there should be something more that he’s doing right now, like feeling emotions in colour or begging his reflection for forgiveness, but he can’t quite bring himself to do it.

But George is there. He is a constant. He is a constant in Dream’s never ending, bore of a life. George with his kindness. George with his hope, with his unending goodness. They keep waking up in different timezones, working together, filming videos, making each other laugh. And in between all the posturing and act they put on when they’re streaming or recording, there’s the quiet in-between. There’s the learning.

Dream learns that George doesn’t take sugar in his tea (but he takes it in his coffee). He learns that he loves oranges (but he loves mangoes even more). And he learns that George likes watching true crime (so Dream starts watching Buzzfeed Unsolved so he can talk to George about it). And he learns all these things involuntarily, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

When he’s with George, he feels vulnerable in a way that he has never felt before. He can be open and is free to speak his mind. That’s what Dream thinks he likes most about George - how being in his company just made sense.

He likes how he can tell George anything and George will just listen, and in exchange Dream does the same. Dream calls George up at odd hours of the night, and they talk to each other about their weird quirks and the strange, deformed parts of their heart. Dream likes this. Being able to expect unconditional trust with someone. 

And then, something unexpected.

When he goes to the bookstore he sees a novel he thinks George would like. (He takes a pencil out of his pocket and wants to scribble a note to him.) And then he remembers that George isn’t here. And when he walks out of the subway station and hears a pianist playing on the platform something quiet and secure and overwhelming. (He takes a step forward and asks the pianist for his business card.) But then he remembers George isn’t here. And he keeps walking and sees the cornerstore florist and sees the kind of houseplants that George had in his flat. (And he wants to ask George what his favourite kind of plant is, so that he can buy George one.) But then he remembered that George isn’t here, and that he never was here.

So three months down the line, after Dream has started to miss someone he never even met, he made a decision.

* * *

“I’ve got a surprise for you.” Dream said casually, as natural as asking the weather forecast.

George didn’t look up from whatever it was he was doing on his other monitor, but Dream watched as George’s eyebrow hitched up and the corners of his mouth tilted upward. “Oh yeah?” He said with a miniscule shake of his head. “What is it?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” Dream said petulantly. 

“Let me guess then.” George said, tearing his focus away from his work and looking directly into the camera and, by extension, Dream’s eyes. “A hundred grand?”

Dream shook his head and smiled cheekily. “Mmm, no. I think it’s better than that.”

George laughed. “What could be better than a hundred grand?”

Dream pulled out his cellphone camera and took a photo of a piece of paper laying on his desk. He sent it over to George. 

Across the world, he heard the chime of George’s cellphone. George looked at Dream warily. 

“Go on,” Dream chided, biting his lip.

George looked directly at Dream, eyes narrowed, confusion etched into every feature of his face. He turned on his phone and looked at it, and then back at Dream, and then back at the phone. George broke out into an all-consuming grin, laughing despite himself.

“No.” George said in disbelief, staring at what could only be an airplane ticket for one nonstop flight from Orlando to Florida leaving in two days.

Dream laughed. “Yes.”

“You’ll have to quarantine for two weeks.” George said, notes of confusion seeping into every syllable.

“It’ll be worth it if it means that I finally get to meet you.” Dream said with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i'm dragging out their first meeting that's what you call a slow burn, baby!


	11. fortnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fortnight; two weeks
> 
> fortnite; a video game that isn't quite as good as minecraft

London is bright and cloudy and windy and warm in the summers. Dream goes from Heathrow to a hotel right away, staying a safe distance from anyone else. He takes the airport express train and gets one sacred moment outside on the platform, breathing in that British air that smells distinctly like cigarette smoke. He looks at everyone, stares into their eyes and thinks  _ do you see me here _ , right before getting on the train and beginning his imposed solitude.

The first three days were bearable, mostly because Dream found himself in those strange twilight moments when jet lag gets the better of you. But after he’s adjusted to the four hour time difference, the gnawing boredom seems to get the better of him. He wanders his hotel room and feels young again, a child helpless to the weight of the world. And he feels this whole world and the inevitability of it, and he feels so damn helpless, stuck in this four cornered room because of the possibility of some plague. (He doesn’t think he has it, but he does live in Florida. So.)

He gets sick with wanting and once all his work is done he reads shitty poetry and his heart feels so damn human.

And then George calls.

He always calls. He calls in the morning so Dream can show him the absurdly expensive room service breakfast he ordered. (Almost always blueberry pancakes. Sometimes eggs and bacon.) They call through the afternoon and do their work together. Dream shows off his hastily made computer set-up, microphone haphazardly dangling by the arm of the hotel desk lamp. And George shows Dream his cat and his apartment and the take-out the Dream bought for him and all the stupid things Dream doesn’t  _ have  _ to know, but wants to know.

There’s a grim possibility that Dream does, in fact, have the virus. He was in an enclosed metal tube with a hundred-something other people breathing in the same air. He tries not to think about it. And then…

But then, George calls.

And Dream never wants George to stop calling. Because everything that George does is so deliberate. He picks his clothes for the day with great care. Feeds his cats good cat food because it keeps them healthy. He goes for a jog in the setting sun because it “isn’t as hot”. And in between all their stupid conversations and false arguments is the waiting. The waiting is so damn impossible, because it feels like time just keeps stretching out. There’s nothing left for Dream to do, so he picks apart the fabric of his existence and then spends days putting it back together. 

He also watches a lot of Netflix.

The calls and the Netflix and the overall vitamin D deficiency happen all at the same time, that he almost misses the point where he notices that there are only three days left in his quarantine. Dream knows that by now if he has no symptoms, he’s probably healthy. But he waits the extra seventy two hours just to be sure. And George is there every step of the way. 

Dream doesn’t know how to repay the favour, because George was there to call Dream and he’s there to offer his apartment and his inflatable air mattress. And he is always there for Dream so damn it, he doesn’t know what to do in order to show his gratitude. 

The payment comes asking on his last day of quarantine, when Dream and George have already made plans to go down to the beach in Brighton and get lunch quickly. But then George tells Dream that Wilbur Soot is in town (and George is so nice) and he asks if it’s okay that Wilbur tags along (because George is just that nice).

And despite all the yearning in his heart for it to be just Dream and George the way it should be, Dream says yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry this chapter is so short and boring i'm gonna update later today or tomorrow! i just rly wanted to dedicate a whole chapter to dreams quarantine to signify the passage of time and i also had to quarantine for 2 weeks after entering the country in July and yes its as awful and boring as this chapter makes it out to be


	12. face III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK I'M SO SORRY for such a late update but you don't understand!!!!!! i met a gamer boy whos really funny and smart and i might just be a lil bit whipped AND GUESS WHAT????? HIS NAME IS GEORGE!!! the universe is being really cruel to me right now so... yes. take this <3

While London smells like cigarettes and cherry wine, Brighton smells like the sea and possibilities. It smells like the first days of spring, those sacred few days when life feels like it’s starting over again. Dream’s sneakers hit the pavement, equal parts gravel and sand, and he feels like he can’t breathe, like something is weighing on his heart. He has felt like this for days now, like he’s gasping for air.

He follows the directions that George texted him.  _ Outside the train station. The A54 bus southbound. The bus stop right before the pier. Walk half a mile east. And you should be there.  _ And all throughout his journey, he can’t seem to turn his mind off.

When he gets off the train, he wonders what he’ll say to George. (Something funny and witty? Or aloof but genuine?). When he waits at the bus stop, he checks his phone and turns it on and off again, fingernail clicking quietly against the power button. He tries to focus in on the song playing through his headphones, trying to drown out his senses. He feels too human right now (like most days recently.) His fingers feel like they’re made up of nerve endings, his heart one beat away from exploding. And when he rides the bus and sees the shore creep up on him, he looks at all the individuals riding the bus and makes up stories in his head for every one of them.

He imagines this world, so infinite and vast, and there he was, just in the middle of it all. He wasn’t a myth, not anything worth knowing. He was just Dream. 

And then once he walked the half mile and he saw the path and the wooden staircase and the two distinct figures of people Dream knew all too well, he realized that George - this boy that contained multitudes - was simply that. He was just Dream, and in this moment, George was just George. 

He saw Wilbur from the corner of his eye and the image he saw was fuzzy at best, because it was George - George, superimposed onto his memory, a constant for the last few months, the only voice he could fall asleep to - George was right there.

He was right there, and he was wearing a white shirt and skinny jeans, and he was skinny (so skinny) and he was taller than Dream expected and his eyes, oh, his eyes— 

“Dream.” George said, and it was calmer than he expected. It wasn’t insistent, or harsh, or anything Dream expected. It was as if George had been calling out his name since the dawn of time.

And Dream looked at George, and he smiled. “George.” He said quietly, as if it was the only name he knew how to say. He wasn’t sure how he felt. He thought he might have felt excited, or overcome with joy, but he felt a new emotion all together, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Somewhere in between the cracks of the boardwalk plywood, and the boundless bright blue sky, there was a quiver of possibility that hung in the sea-salt air. 

* * *

The three of them - Wilbur and George and Dream - got fast food and sat outside and talked about all the mundane things. (Yes, the weather has been good.) (The flight was fine. Not too much turbulence.)

And Dream isn’t sure how he feels, because when he looks at George, he feels a sort of severe cognitive dissonance, where his brain is fighting to put that virtual, pixelated version of George together with this version of George, the one who laughed with his whole heart and looked down at the ground when he smiled and ate with a hand over his mouth.

There’s a moment where Wilbur gets a phone call and he looks back and forth between George and Dream mouthing  _ sorry  _ with one hand over the speaker before rushing off quickly, and as quick as he runs off, as does all the air between them get sucked out of the atmosphere. 

George is staring at Dream with wide, unblinking eyes. Dream lets out a hesitant chuckle and shook his head. “What?” He said, grinning through his mask.

George kept staring at Dream, and Dream watched George’s shoulders go slack. “I can’t believe you’re here.” He said, stunned.

Dream nodded. “Crossed the ocean.”   
  


“For me,” George said, and it sounded more like a statement than a question.

Dream tilted his head to the right. “Didn’t go for Wilbur.” He said, half-joking.

George laughed, and tilted his head upward. “Your hair is blonde.” 

“I know.”

“No, it’s really blonde.”

Dream smiled. He shook his head, and stared at George in the light. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed. see you when my heart stops beating a mile a minute at every notification i get.


	13. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the election is stressing me out so i wrote this as a distraction

The sun dips low into the horizon in that psychedelic, sleepy way it so often does. Wilbur calls an Uber, and they part ways. What’s left in the rubble are two boys standing on the sidewalk. Dream, fiddling with the settings on his phone. George, staring up at the sky.

After a beat, George cleared his throat. “Shall we go?” He said. Dream looked at George, quiet and unassuming. He felt like if he looked away, George would fade right into the background. So he keeps staring at George, his anchor in the dark night.

They’re walking down sidewalks and it feels like no time passes between them. It’s a ten minute walk from the pier, and they’re accompanied by a comfortable silence. They walked in step, and though Dream looks around at all the unfamiliar surroundings, he keeps going back to George. He’ll never forget this moment. It’s the kind of experience that leaves your lips as you whisper with a dying breath.

Dream takes a breath of air. “Air’s different here,” He says, staring towards the ocean. “Cleaner.”

George chuckles. “Yeah, ‘cause I bet Florida’s air smells like swamp water and alligators.” He jokes.

Dream looks at George, taken aback. “Hey! Florida isn’t all alligators and swamps! People from Florida can be surprising!”

“You sure about that?” George retorted. Dream rolled his eyes and jabbed George in the stomach with his elbow.

George rolled his eyes. “We’re coming up on my flat right now.” He said, nodding towards the apartment. He opens the door and presses the elevator button, and Dream can feel the beating of his heart.

The blood rushing in his veins is made up of the same stuff that battle cries are fueled by, the kind of feeling you get when you hear the wind whistling through the mountain tops. The blood in Dream’s veins, pulsing through him like a current, like a riptide, like diving off a cliff, tells him something his brain could never tell.  _ Go,  _ his heart tells him,  _ you’ll never know if you don’t try. _

So he stands in the elevator beside George, and the light is casting shadows on him and the bulb is this horrific fluorescent white.

He looks down at the ground. Counts the linoleum tiles. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight…

And then the elevator stops. George gets out first, taking out his keys and unlocking the door.

The door, just like everything else in George’s life, was perfectly unassuming and mundane. It’s a white door with a knob and a lock, and Dream can’t help but wonder how someone so interesting, someone who contains multitudes, lives behind all these layers of normalcy. But then he figures that perhaps, everyone was a little bit like that.

And so he sees George now, misplaced and misshapen, among dining chairs and kitchen stoves, all the things that Dream never sees. And so he sees himself, in another time zone, miles away from everything he has ever known and ever loved.

“Welcome home.” George says, and Dream looks around.

He looks at the fireplace and the houseplants and the ceramic mugs and the PlayStation and the red-and-brown carpet that covers the area between the television and the white couch. And he sees the half-eaten cereal bowl - and a door to a room, slightly ajar, with a microphone and a chair and a computer - one bought with the money he gave.

He can piece together where George fits into reality. He sees George buying firewood at Tesco, paying for it with his credit card. And he sees George in the early morning light, watering his plants with tap water. He sees George drinking coffee out of mugs, and playing video games when he should have been studying. (And then playing video games when he should have been working) He sees George shopping for area rugs and receiving his packages in the mail and sleeping on the couch and the closed-door room to his bedroom, talking to Dream on his cellphone.

It hits Dream with a stark realization that they could have never met each other. They could have continued, in orbit, missing each other entirely. Like two parallel lines that had no hope of intersecting. Like two celestial bodies playing tag for all of eternity. He would have kept breathing, not knowing there was someone across the ocean holding his lungs captive. His life would have continued as it was, but his eyes would never be seen quite like how George looked at him.

He would feel the sun on his skin, memorize the faces of the ones he met, and went through life blissfully. But it would have never been blissful if he never met George.

Dream sees George in all these shades of black and white and opal and emerald, and he realizes how lonely, how desperately lonely he was.

But then he looks at the boy sitting on the kitchen counter, texting someone on his phone, and realizes, he isn’t lonely anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> florida and texas...... babe u broke my heart.......


	14. idiot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update haha..... i have a boyfriend now

“You wanna walk down to the pier?” George asked, a little while after, legs still swinging on the kitchen counter, staring at Dream in the half-lidded darkness.

Dream yawned and sat down on the couch. It was warm. The blankets smelled a little bit like George. (Like a campfire and the earth after the rain.) He shook his head. “Tired.” He said quietly. “Haven’t gone out and done things in over two weeks… y’know?”

George picked himself up off the counter and walked over to Dream, socked feet making quiet footsteps against the hardwood floor. The two of them sat side by side, and Dream could feel his heart beating in his chest. Dream wasn’t sure what it is that he felt, but whatever it was, he never wanted to stop feeling that way.

“We can just stay in, then.” George said simply. “Whatever you want to do,” A beat of silence, a dropped gaze, a lowered octave. “As long as you’re here.”

Dream’s life, of late, has been whizzing by him. He was always waiting for the next thing to happen: the next person to meet, the next flight to catch, the next life to live. When he was with George, he didn’t feel any of those things. When he was with George, his life felt like it was slowing down. Perhaps he was finally living life alongside everyone else.

He was sitting beside George, the volume of the television turned low, and he felt time ticking by. For the first time, he didn’t quite mind.

Dream thinks. And he thinks. And he thinks. And he thinks. And once he’s done thinking, once he’s done considering all the alternatives, he realizes that there’s only truly one conclusion: he’s got to put on a show, turn on that classic Dream charm that millions across the world have come to know and love.

Dream let out a loud, forced yawn. “Well, I sure am tired.” He said, stretching his right arm out and resting it on George’s shoulder.

Shock gave way for pause, and the bewildered eyes, wide-set into George’s face matched Dream’s cocky (nervous) demeanor. 

George let out a sigh and squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh, you are such an idiot.” He said quietly, shaking his head.

“I had to find a way!” Dream exclaimed. 

George rolled his eyes. “You just  _ had _ to find a way to put your arm on my shoulder, huh.”

“Yes!” Dream replied fervently. “...and, y’know, find a way to do it without you calling me an idiot.”

George shook his head, but Dream saw, in the corner of his eye, the smallest smile creeping up on George’s face. “There it is,” Dream said quietly, coaxing a softer smile out of George. “There’s that smile I’ve come to know.”

George kept shaking his head, blushing furiously, and Dream kept marvelling at this boy. This stupid, stupid boy.

Their conversation has lulled to a natural stopping point. Dream could see George staring up at him, a question forming and dying on his lips.

“What are you thinking about?” George whispered.

Dream let out a shaky laugh. “How to find a way to kiss you without you calling me an idiot.”

Slowly, but unmistakably, George smiled. He shifted under Dream’s hold and met his gaze. George rested his hands on Dream’s neck. They were cold and smooth to the touch, Dream thought them vaguely of marble.

“But you  _ are  _ an idiot.” George whispered, leaning in and closing the space between the two of them.

Dream wanted to laugh, cry, scream, shout, but all those paled in comparison to kissing George. He knew that he had to keep doing that, just as he knows to brush his teeth before bed, or double-knot his shoelaces. He knows George is right for him like how a mother protects her young, like how the sun sets just as the moon rises, just as Adam loved Eve.

  
  



End file.
